I grew up in a haunted house.

There were corpses of a marriage hidden in the walls.

An imprint where a fist fight had taken place.

Old papers from lawyers of a forgotten court case.

One summer, a new bride moved in to take the place of the old.

And a few summers later, she was in the ground cold.

But the cops were invited to the funeral, and so the truth was never told.

The first bride of the house escaped. And the other never got to grow old.

You can find her at the end of Bridge St.

She’d love flowers by her grave.

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